“My mind forgets the persons I have been along the way…”
–Jorge Luis Borges
This morning I stitch them back together: the anorexic kid who was afraid of the hot, metallic words in his throat, who stared at the blue washed walls of the psychiatric hospital. The young man who conjectured that the world was an activity and not a foregone conclusion. The older man who saw that disability was simply an ingredient in a daily rebirth. And the needle is swift. It pushes between danger and disorder. Here is the man who holds all his shadows inside himself and remains in love. He is like the heores in a tale that only contains animals. Oh he’s stitching alright. He stands on one of the world’s three angles with his damaged eyes wide open.
Planet of the Blind 
The art of time.
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